At last, a dark murderous lunatic
to whom they are allowed to respond.
Here, no one expects them to be strung
up by their necks—dangled—and then left
to be cut down from a tall tree—and not cry.
No law—here—will require them to watch
their families hurled on top of the world’s bright pyre,
over generations—without complaint—
unattended by rage’s holiness
or the clear mirror of grief. They find some
chalk to celebrate. While one loads, one lifts,
then checks. Just before they ignite the bomb,
they write on its shell—FROM HARLEM, TO HITLER—
then stand back for the camera, smiling.
~ Robin Coste Lewis
From “Voyage of the Sable Venus and other poems,” (Alfred A. Knopf, 2015)